


Pieces

by bloodandcream



Series: The more the merrier [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Blood, D/s, F/M, Fire, Hooks, M/M, Multi, Pegging, a shmorgasbord of vague porn and bondage, staples
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People thought they knew him, and that was fine by Castiel, he didn’t much know himself.</p><p>(AU D/s fic where Cas is Meg’s sub and Dean is Alistair’s sub but then Destiel and Meanstiel happens.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces

_And it’s like I’m broken in pieces but that’s ok because you’re broken in pieces too, and we can be in pieces together, give a piece of myself to you._

-

Castiel Novak was the sort of man that no one knew and everyone thought that they knew. When you don’t say much, people make assumptions. When you don’t clarify, the thin spun webs of imagination harden and fix in people’s mind. Quiet and mild mannered some think, perhaps he’s a snob, aloof, thinks he’s better than the rest of us. Cold and still, doesn’t he seem to be a cruel man, someone with lots of secrets to hide. Same rumpled clothes and same subtle mannerisms day in and day out, doesn’t he seem like the sad sort of man that lives alone and eats tv dinners. People thought they knew him, and that was fine by Castiel, he didn’t much know himself.

-

The sensation was not new to him, but it was increasing in frequency and intensity lately and when he was of a right mind it was something to be disconcerted about. He found himself feeling like a stranger in his own body. It didn’t fit. It didn’t work how it was supposed to. There was some sort of disconnect between his fingertips and his cerebral cortex. Or perhaps the hippocampus. Maybe synapses weren’t firing right.

As a small child he felt like his body was too small, incorrect, incapable of the things his mind ached for. Puberty was torment, and much of it was repressed to dark recesses of his mind. Even middle aged, it still felt like his body was too small. Wrong. Stretched tight over here till the skin tingled and the muscles twitched jittery.

His body felt wrong. His mind felt wrong too. They didn’t match.

Castiel began losing sleep, and he began to loose track of all the sleep he had lost. There were red furrows along his forearms where he had clasped his hands over wrists and scratched without noticing. He felt as though something were wrong, and he didn’t know how to allay it.

Talking to other people was not an option. Therapists were out of the question. He knew already what they would find and what they would say. That is was the cruel neighbor kid who would stuff him in a bag and seal it off, locking him in a closet for hours. That it was his father who never noticed, or never cared, who slurred insults and threw bottles. That is was the priest of their church where Castiel used to seek refuge until the man pulled his tiny hands under white robes. That it was his first girl friend who knew how to paralyze him with words, how to make him sit still while she pushed sewing needles through the webs of his fingers.

It wasn’t them.

It was him.

It was this creeping vague sense of wrongness, it was a fog in his mind that obscured the landscape, fog you can never catch, can never touch, you just have to wait for it to dispel.

It wasn’t anyone else it was him, it was something inside of him he needed to get rid of, to purge himself of. So he did what he did best, he researched.

-

There aren’t many books he can consult for the information he’s looking for, although he’s not entirely certain what he’s looking for himself. The sorts of books he wants certainly can’t be found in the library. Reluctantly he turns to the internet, wary of any information found there, questioning of accuracy and reliability. But he does find an abundance.

Body modification. BDSM. Religious rituals and rights of passage tested through physical endurance and pain. Meditation. He finds that people do all manner of things to their bodies to change them, claim them, use them as vehicles of expression and as a challenge, modify them as signifiers of social status. It’s fascinating. Scarification, tattoos, piercings, branding, inserts. Even, towards the extreme end of the spectrum, amputations. There are permanent transformations and there are temporary. Things that change, stretch, modify, color, alter.

Castiel picks at his skin, itching, it’s not his body, but he begins to wonder if perhaps he can make it his, if he can claim it, learn it, understand it.

The question is where to start. He doesn’t know what he wants and what he needs, something permanent does not feel prudent. Rather, he needs to dip his toes in the water first. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but someone else might know what to give him.

\- 

The play space was called simply The Edge. The building was tucked between a tall brick commercial space and a run down apartment complex in a bad side of town, bright swathes of graffiti sprawling across the sides of buildings, the concrete parking lots crumbling and riddled with holes, garish fluorescent and neon lights from clubs and twenty four hour joints strung up and down the street. There was small laminate sign on the chipped green paint of the door to identify the building, Castiel wasn’t certain he was in the right spot until saw those two words in Times New Roman, plain, simple.

The Edge.

The door was locked but there was a buzzer next to it. A gruff man, portly, swirls of color down his thick forearms, answered the door barely by a crack, blocking the space behind him from Castiel. He managed state his name, to inquire politely if this was the correct location.

The door man seemed wary, but waved him in, collecting a fee, passing him papers to sign a waiver and release them from any liability of bodily harm, reciting a list of rules and giving a cursory lay out of the space. To the right down a corridor the open play area with equipment, and you will be monitored by a DM, stay behind the tape lines if someone is in a scene. To the left through that door refreshments, the casual mingle area. These doors are the bathrooms. Through there are private rooms but you’ll have to clear it first. Tonight’s a light play night. No fluids, that means no blood, no semen, no spit, no vomit, no piss. Those nights are on Saturday. Make yourself comfortable.

Castiel hung his jacket up where others were gathered, still wearing his button down, his tie, his black slacks. Perhaps it was out of place, but he was comfortable in it. The first place he explored was to the left. It was odd, in a pleasant way, to see people in various states of dress and undress, some in casual jeans and tees while other’s were in corsets and stockings. They lounged on mismatched furniture, stood around in groups, chatting. Some kneeled on the floor and were fed by finger, other’s sat on laps. There was a table with homemade cookies, a crock pot, a layered dip and bowls of chips, a vegetable tray, a large industrial type coffee pot. As conversation filtered through to him he heard people chatting about their kids, their jobs, safe rope practices, the proper disposal procedure for used needles, car troubles, a stray cat, structuring poly households.

They all seemed so, normal. 

\- 

She was the paragon of a dominatrix, serpentine curves and blood red lips, long falls of wavy dark hair framing pale porcelain skin. There were many men, and women, who would grovel at her feet and beg for the chance to be under her whip, to be near her, to be used by her. Castiel was reluctant to approach anyone at first, nervous and uncertain of himself, how he was supposed to hold himself, how he was supposed to talk, what he was supposed to be. But she came to him. Without even asking his name or why he was there she called him ‘Clarence’ and beckoned him to follow her. He recognized the name, Clarence, it was an angel from a movie, so he asked her what made her pick that name for him. It seemed suiting she should name him, he didn’t mind that, but he was curious why she chose it. She had smiled at him, wide lips and bright teeth ready to devour, and she had told him ‘because you look like an angel in a den of demons baby, and I want to corrupt you’. She did corrupt him, and he consented, stripped bare in body and flayed open in mind.

\- 

Castiel thinks it’s odd that industrial staples hurt less than medical staples. She loves to do medical scenes, has a cute nurse outfit that’s more a napkin than a dress, swell of creamy breasts spilling out between the deep slit of white with little red crosses over each side, the bottom pulling up ruched over the curve of her backside and maybe the costume is a size too small but it fits just right for Castiel’s tastes as well. He doesn’t like the medical staples, though, the way they curve and crimp under your skin. Perhaps he just doesn’t like the way she pulls them out carelessly with a malicious twist that rips them from his skin. But it does bring the prettiest smile to her face and he can’t find it in himself to complain.

The industrial staples, well, he has his own staple gun since it’s not single use like the medical kits and it can’t be sterilized properly, he keeps it in it’s own bag and it only touches his skin. The staples are larger, more intimidating, but they go in straight and they come out straight, it hurts less than the shallow little medical staples that hit all the nerves lying close under the skin. She buys neon leopard print duck tape to line rows down his buttocks and thighs, shooting staples in neat lines, paddling him for good measure before ripping one long strip after another, but the staples break free straight instead of curved and twisted and he likes it better. She wipes him down with antiseptic, making sure to apply pressure to the throbbing flesh of his thighs, because you have to staunch the blood flow that way, smack, don’t you know Clarence, smack.

He has his own staple gun. He keeps it in the innocuous black bag that’s beginning to collect his favored toys.

\- 

It’s like he can pay for his sins in blood, buying indulgences isn’t it called, indulging himself in her care. It’s like he can quiet the jittering nervous swarms in his head by screaming it all out, like locusts will fly from his mouth and he’ll be empty, god’s plague, he doesn’t need it. It’s like he can find vindication for how fucked up he is if someone else will agree but at the same time he finds absolution for it because they don’t mind how fucked up he is, they are too. They all are. They all need. They all shape unnamable wants and unchaseable itches into something tangible they strap down and beat out, plucking something like fog from their minds and making it solid and smashing it to pieces. They all have their reasons. 

\- 

She lit his cock on fire once. Well, several times, but it was one night. He had never tried it before so he said yes. Bringing out a shaving kit and laying him back on the bed she straddled his thighs and shaved his pubes off completely, deciding it best to shave the tops of his thighs as well seeing as they were in the immediate vicinity, and eventually she shaved his legs completely. Castiel didn’t mind, she hummed contentedly while she worked and stroked the silk smooth skin of his legs as they were bared.

All she used on his cock was rubbing alcohol, spreading a line of it down the middle with a cotton ball and lighting it with a bic, a brief intense flash then her hand was smothering the flame, covering him and extinguishing it. At first, it wasn’t even painful, just warm. Then she did it again. She extinguished the flame as quickly as it came, but the more times she repeated the action he became very sensitive, flushed, painful to touch, and when he started to whimper she stopped. Spread her hands over his thighs, nimble fingers, delicate boned, coaxing his legs apart murmuring what a sweet angel he was.

She pressed into him with a toy, kneeling between his thighs and holding them up around her slender waist, shushing him with murmurs when he writhed, face contorted, sore cock still burning hot swelling with interest but it only served to stretch tender flesh, he came half hard and sobbing. But she lay down next to him, soft hair against his face turned to press between her breasts and she spread aloe on his cock. In the morning it wasn’t even burned, just tender, a deeper shade of red. 

His mind was blissfully quiet the whole day.

-

He likes to do these things to his body, especially when it feels like it’s not even his body. In a way it serves to tether him, bind him down and make him feel the connection between his mind and his flesh. It serves to remind him to tend to his physical body, sores and scabs that need cleaned and minded for days afterwards. Castiel tries not to pick at the marks, but he enjoys opening them up, thinking about Meg, watching them heal all over again until they are faint pink scars fading to silver.

He enjoys watching the bruises as they change, deep blood purples the day after, fringed with highlighter yellow after, then fading slowly to sickly greens and blues. It’s watching his body metamorphose and knowing he can control it.

It makes him feel more connected, like he’s not just floating in the clouds.

-

Sometimes she wants him to fuck her. To hold her down with arms bent awkwardly behind her back and clasped together in his strength, larger, broader body bent over her, rutting like animals, biting and scratching. He didn’t know sex could be like this. It feels primal, visceral, it feels real.

Quiet Castiel, cold, same day in and day out, always breaks his routine for her, breaks into new things, breaks himself apart.

Meg fights him back and makes him work for it, trading bruises, trading blood, teeth in skin and nails tangled in hair. He likes fucking her this way.

-

He feels like his body is not his own, so he gives it away, learns about the things other people want his body to be, what Meg makes his body into, and he takes these little bits and pieces like baubles to weave in his nest, part of a picture, part of a whole he can’t grasp yet but is starting to feel is there. He feels useful, he feels like something even if it’s an object, a person is a thing hard to define and hard to understand, but objects are simple, and for a night he can be something simple. Something known. Something definable. It’s comforting.

-

Castiel’s chest is a mass of pin prick dots, little specks of bruises and the remains of beaded blood where it was slow to stop. His nipples are sore, he’d never had them pierced before and even though it was only in play- he’s not maintaining jewelry in them- he likes that he can say he’s done this now.

Body curled beside Meg, fingertips brushing through sweat tousled hair, he lays with his head on her stomach, soft, rising and falling gently with her breath.

She wants to take him to a show, she says. Tells him that an old mentor of hers will be there, with a boy he’s been training for a while now but she’s never seen. He’s supposed to put on an intense scene, supposed to be pretty, people talk about his lips and about the way he screams.

Castiel doesn’t mind going, he prefers to play in private with Meg, but he still goes out with her to public parties when she wants an obedient, pretty thing to parade around. He likes it, and she knows as such, to be used by her as a tool. So he says he will go and watch and heel and play nice.

-

It’s a different location that Castiel has never been to, in a quieter part of town, the looming concrete block building rising from an asphalt lot alone. The exterior is drab and boring, creme colored, paint peeling, windows blacked out, no signs, no building numbers, but Meg knows where it is and she knows what door to go to.

They wind through abandoned retail spaces, chipped linoleum and sputtering fluorescence, before coming to an interior room where there’s a table of refreshments, warm colors and plush furniture, people milling around and talking quietly. Meg has him strip down to the tight black boxer briefs he’s wearing, placing his clothes in the small cubbies provided.

He wears no collar or leash, trained to her hand signals a snap of fingers and two pointed down has him on his knees at her feet, leaning against her leg. She used to play dress up with him, had him try on various items and jewelries that had no practical use, but he was often irritated by the unnecessary things so he is left plain most times. Most seem to appreciate his lithe frame without adornment though, understated, simple. The only thing he wears now beside his underwear are fresh bruises.

Eventually everyone is herded into a taller space, ceiling exposed, floor lined with cushioned mats that interconnect, an ‘L’ shape of chairs and pillows set around an area where several men are gathered. There are thick strong crossbeams set up above there in their own arrangement and bolted with welded metal, a thick cord of metal running from a control on the wall up through a pulley to a long metal bar with clasps and chains hanging from it.

Meg settles them at a corner and Castiel kneels beside her, her hand warm against the nape of his neck. She explains which one is her mentor, the man with an oily smile and a crooked nose, Alistair, even his name sounds like a hiss. His boy is obvious, naked, sitting on a stool with broad shoulders held up straight and eyes closed. Skin dappled with freckles, tan and taut over strong muscles, he sits calmly while Alistair measures and marks the skin on his back. There are several assistants, flitting nearby, sterilized and gloved passing items from stainless steel trays to Alistair.

Castiel has to sit up on his heels, trying not to be overly obvious in his enthusiasm , to get a look at the thick curving metal hooks lying on the tray. He watches in rapt fascination as Dean’s skin is marked, as Alistair pulls and holds the flesh, pushing long hooks under, two at the tops of his shoulder blades, and two in each arm to make a straight line out from elbow to elbow, six total.

Castiel watches Dean, face twitching slightly as the first hook pierces his skin but he takes a deep breath into his chest and releases it slowly, easing into it, jaw clenched then slack, holding still. After the hooks are in Alistair holds a hand at the small of Deans back and leans over him, speaking in his ear, body curved away so as not to touch, murmuring something until Dean nods and stands from the stool making his way to the center of the open space under the cross beams.

The chains are linked and clasped to the open loops on the end curve of the hooks, all pulled neat and steady until they are even from his stretched out arms to the bar above him. Alistair smiles his snake oil smile and pats Dean’s hip, moving to the control on the wall, the bar lifting and pulling Dean up by the chains slowly with steady controlled ease. Castiel can see his back from this angle, the way the skin pulls tight and it’s like a wrapper being pulled up, like it’s not even connected.

Held by six points and lifted till his dangling toes were several feet above the floor, Alistair let him hang, fingers twitching and face contorting for a few moments before he schooled himself back into a calm complacency, hanging, and as the moments passed a blissed smile pulled at his lips, plush swell, crinkled freckles, head lolling relaxed.

It was beautiful

-

Castiel gleaned what he could, listened to Meg talk about Alistair, asked if they could attend more parties where Alistair – Dean – would be and she knew what his true intention was. But she didn’t mind.

He didn’t like Alistair at all, there was something around the man that felt like smoke on his skin, cloying, invasive, intangible, it made the hairs at the back of his neck stand to attention. But for as much as Alistair made his wrongness tingle, Dean set it at ease. There were a few times Castiel managed to talk freely with the young man, who only seemed eager for the interaction, for shared experience and understanding. He radiated warmth and ease, rolled fluidly in his environment, stubborn sometimes in play but quick with a smile for Castiel.

They talked, and Castiel found he needed to know how this man had ended up with Alistair. As eager as the man was to talk and chatter and tell stories most of the time, he had only three words for Alistair.

It’s complicated.

Castiel liked that phrase, he understood it, he respected it. It was something you heard a lot in these circles, it’s complicated, and it was a way to say I don’t particularly want to talk about it. You understood there were layers there behind that phrase and many of them were probably bad, probably still hurt, and many of them were probably good, hopefully enough to keep you against the bad layers, but sometimes the bad was what made you stay anyway and you don’t know why but you do and when people ask, you say it’s complicated. Castiel understood.

Life was complicated. A lot of people wanted tidy lives with tidy labels and tidy days. He had been one of those people. But it never felt right, he never felt right in his own skin. Tidy labels didn’t fit and he accrued more and more labels until he decided to say it’s complicated.

-

Meg seemed wary of her old mentor, and she pushed Castiel harder than usual, her finesse and rhythmic pace in meting out pain given way to brutality and blood. Castiel did not understand. He could make assumptions. But he didn’t. Meg told him she couldn’t care less if he wanted to play with the pretty boy, but he needed to be wary of Alistair, the man had a way of making deals with people, had a way about him even though you wouldn’t think it. He was dangerous. That was not something Meg considered many people to be, for she was dangerous as well. Perhaps that’s where she learned it from.

Dean and Castiel negotiated a scene, occasionally interjected by Meg and Alistair. Castiel knows Meg does not mind, they have never been exclusive, he knows of and has met several other’s of the men and women she likes to play with. For Alistair’s part, the man seems keen to watch Dean branching out, calls Dean his pupil with a glint in his eyes.

Castiel has had needles pushed under his skin before, but nothing of the gauge like these hooks, and he knows he’s not ready to hang, won’t try it the first go, but Dean suggests something else and he’s taken with the idea.

They play privately, the four of them, in a small rented room painted crimson and draped in black. Dean brings the supplies, trays and sterilization, hooks and chains. The iodine is cold as it’s spread across Castiel’s chest, leaving orange smear on his skin, Dean’s fingers smoothed by gloves as they measure and mark him. Dean repeats on himself, calculating, intense, absorbed.

Castiel stares down at himself with captivated attention as the gleam of silver is pushed under his skin, biting down on a whine but his brow draws together and he watches the second being pushed under his skin. The wounds only bleed slightly several inches tracked down his chest but the hooks stay there with skin taut over and he’s too mesmerized looking at himself that he misses Dean piercing his own flesh with the other two hooks.

Chains are connected between them and Dean takes off his gloves to clasp Castiel’s hands in calloused hold, firm, warm, soothing. Stepping back several paces, Dean puts space between them until the chains start to pull at the hooks and Castiel is rapt as he watches his skin stretch and pull and separate from his body in ways it should not.

It’s not his body. It doesn’t fit. It seems fitting them to change and stretch and warp it like this in strange ways. Castiel thinks perhaps some day through all this he will find what his body is meant to be, what fits. So he watches his chest being pulled out as he tilts away from Dean, swallowed by the pain and buzzing with adrenaline he floats on the sensation, wide eyed, parted lips, sheen of perspiration along expanses of skin and Dean’s the same, a light in his green eyes that hold Castiel’s stare, like there’s a truth they know, and it’s a truth only for them, a truth in shared pain and blood.

It’s transcendent.

-

He hadn’t really meant for it to happen.

Meg takes a liking to Dean.

Dean is wary of her at first, snarky and brazen, both too stubborn for their own good.

But Meg’s apartment is where they can all play. She lets the two boys have alone time, Castiel would find it odd that she only seems amused by them but he has given up understanding her a long time ago. Eventually, among Castiel’s toothbrush, spare clothes, toy bag, some items of Dean’s began to find their way. Meg keeps ruffled panties in the apartment for Dean, smirking at Cas that Dean wears them so well isn’t he a good boy. She teaches Dean how to florentine double floggers and how much blood he can draw from Cas’ body before he needs to put down the knife.

It’s a content arrangement of sorts and between all the drawn lines and boundaries they’ve laid are stretches and stretches of space to explore.

Meg likes to watch them fuck, sits with a glass of wine naked by the bed while Castiel rides Dean, hands splayed out fingers digging into the welts across tan skin, his muscles quivering and there’s blood running down his back in thin rivulets thickening sticky in the small of it. Dean runs his hands up the curve of his undulating hips and dips them back into the slick flow on his back smearing them both while Meg licks her lips.

-

Castiel feels like his body is not his, swelling with guilt ready to spill and itching with unknown things that taunt him. He doesn’t always know what to do with it. So he gives pieces of himself away, lets Meg and Dean cut themselves on his edges and feed pieces of themselves back to him, all of them breaking open and swapping pieces and sewing each other back up again. It doesn’t fit. But it’s better. Maybe some day they will find a way to sew all the pieces up right and Castiel will know what it’s like to know himself.


End file.
